My Cup Runneth Over
by MostlyScrubbed
Summary: The greatest sports franchise in history? The Detroit Red Wings. Their two biggest fans? Dr. Cox and JD. Twoshot, friendfic.
1. My Cup Half Empty

**A/N: This idea came to me while actually watching the game portrayed in this fic: the 6****th**** game of the Stanley Cup Finals between the Detroit Red Wings and Pittsburgh Penguins, June 9****th****, 2009. I thought it would be fun to imagine how Dr. Cox and JD would be viewing it. I took notes and partially wrote as I watched the game, and edited in more content afterward. JD's POV. As always, reviews are awesome. **

**Warnings: Higher than usual rating due to sports-induced man-cussing. (Much of what Dr. Cox says was actually uttered while we watched the game tonight.) Very hockey heavy. Non-fans might not enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.**

**Addendum: I was anticipating this game to be the series clincher, but alas, there's another one on Friday. So I'll be writing that one up too as a sequel. Have fun and chat at you again then.**

**Disclaimer/Confession: I really, really, ree-heeeeelly want to like the Red Wings, but I've always hated Chris Osgood. I used to play goalie in college and have always looked up to Martin Brodeur and Marty Turco. Hope some of that registers with someone out there. Oh, also, I don't own Scrubs, or anything NHL related.**

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**My Cup Half Empty**

"Sorry! Taken!"

I'd already fended off three people from the barstool next to me in a matter of a minute and a half. This latest guy shot me a look and took what appeared to be the second-to-last seat in the bar, which made the spot next to me all the more coveted. I didn't know how much more I could take. The television blared, and people were starting to crowd around the bar in hopes of getting a good vantage point. Sports fans are crazy, apparently. But I knew that already, because the person I was waiting for could be called the epitome of crazy. The Crazitome. The Epitazy. Eh, sorry portmanteau words, you're not helping me out tonight.

But I didn't have to wait any longer, because the door to the bar banged open. It was a very tired looking Dr. Cox, sporting jeans, sneakers and an oversized hockey jersey, number 24. He'd had a long shift and wasn't even sure he'd be able to make it to watch the game, but he'd apparently pulled some strings. He even had managed to bring a spare jersey for me, which he chucked at me from across the room. He pretty much flew over to me, sitting down and immediately taking a swig of the open bottle that was waiting for him.

He reached over and clinked his bottle to mine before I had a chance to react. "Cheers, Newbie. What do we have?"

I pulled on the jersey and tried to sound knowledgeable. "The ugly, hairy men in black and white got the pucky past the really giant man in red and white. The crowd seemed to think that was good!" Nodding sagely, I took a sip of my beer.

"Damnit!" growled Dr. Cox as he banged his fist on the bar. It startled me and I splashed a little. "Osgood's no good in Pittsburgh. Looks too tight. He's gotta loosen up."

I snickered to myself. No good Osgood. I filed that away for potential future use.

Regaining my composure, I offered, "I know we're cheering for the red and white guys. I was just joshin' ya. And the giant guy in the huge kneepads—"

"Osgood," reminded Dr. Cox.

"Right right, Osgood. He's doing great! The other team's been all around him all inning long, and they've only scored once!"

Dr. Cox sighed. "First of all, they're periods, not innings, Michele. And second, the other team swarming around Osgood means the Wings' defense is crap tonight. They're playing sloppy, I can see that already. This isn't going to end well." He polished off his first beer in a hurry and motioned for a second. Just as he was about to take a drink he slammed the bottle down and groaned in harmony with several other of the bar patrons. "Damnit, fool, sit your ass down on the bench! Don't take a shot unless you mean it!"

I shuffled my feet a bit and stared at the television. Someone in red and white had the puck, and he smacked at it with his stick. The puck went flying towards the net, but didn't go in. I heard Dr. Cox sigh quietly, and I turned to look at him.

"They're playing desperate. Mark my words there, this will na-hawt end well." Dr. Cox frowned at the screen as his eyes followed the action. I wanted to learn more about the game, I really did. I wanted to care like he did, with his face all scrunched up in concentration, as though he could will the players to pull off something spectacular. The corners of my mouth twitched as I envisioned a gargantuan, white-bearded Dr. Cox looming over a hockey arena, zapping the players with lightning bolts like Zeus toying with his minions.

I snapped out of it when Dr. Cox spat out, "Bah, pansy ass check, you can hit harder than that!" So much rage. He whirled on me, eyes blazing. "Well what're you staring at, Newbie? Game's up there." He gestured with his beer towards the television, and went back to watching.

I wish I'd kept his attention for about five more seconds, because then he exploded, along with much of the bar. Just about everyone was screaming at the television, either in relief or pure hatred. I'd missed what happened, but the slow-motion instant replay saved me. One of the guys (Wings, I guess?) had the puck and was moving it back and forth towards the goal. The whole thing was absolutely mesmerizing. Chips of ice flew from his heels, his face contorted in concentration. The guy in front of the goal was a moving wall, sliding backwards along with him. Then the Wing took hold of his stick and flicked his wrist just so and sent the puck flying towards the net. My breath caught in my throat, and at that moment I knew I wanted to learn everything about this game. A huge moment for me! I, John Michael Dorian, was actually interested in a real sport. I could feel a fluttering in my chest, like a new love blossoming. But just as soon as it had begun, my love was crushed. The puck hit the post and ricocheted away from the goal. I felt like I was floating above myself, watching me watching the game. My eyes were as wide as they've ever been, my mouth hanging agape. I watched my own fists clench as the puck hit the rear end of the man in the goal, and I heard myself utter a strangled sound of despair as he fell back onto the ice and _sat_ on the puck, immobilizing it.

Dr. Cox voiced my squeaking much more eloquently. "Aaaaand that was your opportunity to tie up the game, for fuck's sake! Jesus, that was almost gorgeous. Goddamn it, Fleury, goddamn it, you lucky ass WITH a lucky ass. Fuck." He looked at me and his expression changed from disgust to amusement. "You ok there, Newbie? Ya look like your puppy was just flattened by a steamroller."

I had to compose myself for the second time in as many minutes. I sniffed at his comment and tried to distract him. "I'm fine. Hey look!" I pointed as two players circled each other, looking like they were ready to rumble. One of them grabbed the other's helmet strap, but with their big fluffy gloves on it almost looked like a sweet moment. "Aww, that's cute! That Holstrom guy's pinching his cheek! Get 'im, 'Strommy! Pinch him good!" I guffawed at my own ridiculously awesome sense of humor but was cut short by a searing glare from Dr. Cox. Apparently he didn't share my opinion of the hairy tough man cuteness.

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So apparently there are these long breaks in between inn— err, periods, which enable you to 1) listen to old washed up hockey players talk about the young burly hockey players, B) watch replays of all the most exciting things that had already happened in the game, and III) get totally schnockered. We were half-heartedly doing the first two but well on our way to the third.

"Eh, I can't watch anymore," Dr. Cox mumbled tipsily, draining his fourth? Fifth? "Every clip is either a replay of the Pens' goal, the non-goal by Shoulda Stayed in Sweden Zetterberg, or a massively crushing hit on one of the Boys. So now I'm going to pretend to be interested in what you're doing there with your… whatever the hell that is. And you're going to entertain me. Go."

Woo! Time to impress my mentor with my superbad mad tech skillz. "Well, I'm so glad you asked, Dr. Perry!" I giggled. "I'm using my iPhone to browse the interwebs! Thousands of people are chatting on Twitter about the hockey game right now. It's amazing how information just flows, flows, flows like beeeeeer!" With that I tipped my beer skyward and took the last sip. Mmm. The mana of the Gods. "Annnnyway, everyone's tweeting about the Red Wings, but nobody is posting anything about the Penguins! Oh wait, here's one person… Oh, they're not talking about the Penguins the hockey team, they're talking about the gay penguins in Germany who adopted an egg! They linked a picture, let me just click that and… OH MY GOODNESS! Oh, it's so fuzzy and grey and cute! Aww jeez, I don't think I can take any more cuteness WHEEEEE!" And with that, I teetered right off my barstool and onto the floor, laughing.

I looked up to see Dr. Cox looking down at me, smirking. He tossed another beer at me, which bounced off my forehead and landed on my stomach. "That's just super. Now get your ass back up here, Lauri. Third period's starting."

The next few minutes were a blur of crappy shots, botched checks and Dr. Cox ranting at the television instead of me. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he was really getting into the technical aspect of the game, trying to explain to me on a third grade level the nuances of hockey. I had a really nice buzz going. Dr. Cox was acting – dare I say? – _fatherly_. And I think I was actually learning something, despite the thick layer of bubble wrap that I imagined must be surrounding my head. It was going rather nicely. At least it was, until…

"Oh my GOOD GOD why was nobody covering that jackass?! Come on you, guys, pull your heads out!" Dr. Cox screamed along with several other bar patrons. The Red Wing players drifted dejectedly across the ice as the thousands of fans in the grandstands twirled their stupid little white twirly things. Aww, who am I kidding. I wished I had a twirly thing. I twirled my empty beer bottle on the countertop, spinning and spinning it. I felt dizzy and sick. I wished something good would happen. I hoped for a miracle. I looked up at the television and prayed briefly to the hockey gods for something good.

The hockey gods must have realized they'd converted me that day, because they answered me twofold. My first response came in the form of a goal. Saint Draper to the rescue. I could watch the replay of his rebound goal all day. The second came when Dr. Cox, on a hockey fan's high, actually clapped me on the shoulder in celebration of the goal. I could feel the warmth pouring out of him, and when I looked at him he was truly, genuinely smiling at me. I felt like my chest was going to burst at that moment.

Dr. Cox turned back to the screen, eyes glimmering. "This is it, Newbie. This is where they turn the game around."

And they almost did. As horrible as the Wings had played in the first period, they had come back somehow and were beginning to dominate their foes as the minutes ticked down towards zero. A rough crosscheck by a Penguin resulted in a power play. A high sticking on Saint Draper resulted in another one. A dog pile formed in the Penguin's net as the players attempted to either shove the puck across the goal line or keep it out. I was actually able to follow the plays despite my inebriated state. It was more intoxicating than the alcohol itself, and soon I was cheering and groaning (appropriately) along with the rest of the crowd. I was one of _them_. I belonged.

Then, suddenly, it was over. Patrons of the bar dragged themselves out, grumbling to each other. Amidst their foul language and lamentations, I expected Dr. Cox to be growling the loudest. But I was shocked when I looked at him.

He was grinning. A huge, full-on, dazzling grin. His eyes were shining.

"Wha?" I slurred incoherently. "We lost. Why're you happy?"

The laughter that gushed forth was like music. "Closest game yet this series, Maxime. Each game so far's been dominated by the home team. If the Wings could come back that strongly after being down by two… imagine what they'll do on Friday when they're at Joe Louis? Joe Louis is the goalie killer, y'know. And I could stand to be rid of one more gangly, stubblefaced, foofyhaired kid." He knocked back the last of his drink, tossed some cash on the bar, and made to leave.

I opened my mouth wordlessly. Finally I unfogged enough of my brain to utter, "Well, will I see you then… then?"

Dr. Cox turned back to me as he reached the exit. "Better believe it. That cup is ours." The door swung shut behind him, and quiet settled over the bar.


	2. My Cup Half Full

**A/N: Welcome back! Once again, this story is based upon the 7****th**** game of the Stanley Cup Finals, played on June 12****th****, 2009. Dr. Cox and JD return to the scene of the crime to cheer on their team, the Detroit Red Wings, as they attempt to beat the Pittsburgh Penguins.**

**Warnings: Also once again, much swearing leads to a higher than usual rating. I tend to channel Dr. Cox while watching hockey, so a lot of what he says actually came straight out of my mouth. **

**Thank yous/Confession: A huge hug to all who reviewed. I'm glad at least a few people enjoyed it! Bells of Tomorrow, your nerdy admission is also mine. I don't think there's anything to be ashamed of there! Dr. Cox is awesome, hockey is awesome. There ya go.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Scrubs or the NHL, or any individual related to either.**

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**My Cup Half Full**

Five o'clock struck sweetly with the beginning of the last hockey game of the season as well as the start of happy hour. I had my feet up on the stool I was saving for Dr. Cox, and I was slowly drinking the sweetest, cheapest appletini I'd ever tasted. I knew that I was making two huge mistakes with that move, but I couldn't help it. You're supposed to drink delicious liqueurs that actually taste good before getting smashed, right? Plus, the bartender had just announced an extra buck off of mixed drinks for Red Wings fans, and I had remembered to wear the jersey that Dr. Cox had loaned to me a couple days previous. Anyways, I knew that whatever bad mood I might put him in now would be erased with alcohol and the hockey game. The cup was ours! And speaking of Dr. Cox…

"Helloooooo hockey fans," Dr. Cox announced by way of greeting as he stepped into the dim bar. Several patrons raised their drinks in response to him as he made his way over to me. I thought for sure I was going to get an earful, but he didn't even make eye contact. He simply strode up to the stool, shoved my feet off and sat, gesturing for a beer.

I rolled with it, feeling like I was getting away with murder. "Whassup, buddy? Ready to partaayyyy?" I sipped from my glass, pinky finger extended, and watched him out of the corner of my eye.

"Not gonna happen, Newbie. You're not gonna get a rise out of me tonight. I'm having big studly man-time with the T.V. here, and if you decide to man up and join us, by all means be my guest. But if you're aiming for that, well, I've got a few rules for ya there. Don't call me "buddy." No more appletinis. Put your pinky DOWN for the love of Yzerman. And do not, under any circumstance, ever ever ever ever ever wear another article of clothing that I loan you as a dress, complete with belt cinched around your tiny girl waist." He shot me a sidelong glance. "EVER."

I slouched and cast my gaze to the floor. "I can't believe Carla told you. Anyways, I was wearing it as pajamas. And I put a belt around myself when I got up to get a drink of water because huge and drafty. I was feeling all tingly in my—"

"BZZZZZZT!" buzzed Dr. Cox, directly in my ear. "MAN-time. I should've shown up after the first period was over again so you'd have had time to get liquored up. Somehow you're less idiotic that way." He finished up his first beer quickly and gestured to the television screen. The Penguins' goalie, Marc-Andre Fleury, was skating into view. "And as if I didn't have enough of a gangly, girly faced pansy jerkoff sitting next to me, there's one for me to watch flail about on the ice. Super." He gave me a sarcastic thumbs-up.

Sighing, I pushed the remains of my appletini away and beckoned for two beers from the bartender. I pounded the first one, took a deep breath, and drank about a third of the second one.

Dr. Cox nodded at me in satisfaction as the game began.

The first period was promising. I'd learned enough from the last game to be able to actually follow what was going on. The Red Wings (such a weird name for a sports team. I really had no clue how that came about. Just the wings of some animal, really? How about the Yellow Beaks or the Blue Chicken Feets?) were on the offensive, playing very aggressively. I found myself grinning every time they made a shot on Pansy Goalie Boy. They were making some nice hits too. One in particular sent the Penguin target spinning through the air before falling to the ice in a heap. My voice rose in my throat unbidden, and I gave a rather manly cheer as it happened.

"Really glad you could join us there, Newbie," Dr. Cox quipped. "I'm thinking about authoring a paper on hockey as testosterone replacement therapy. Interested in being the test subject?" He looked at me in all seriousness and offered the neck of his beer bottle in a toast.

I clinked my bottle against his quietly. "Now if you don't mind, Perry, I'm trying to watch the game."

"Fair enough."

So we settled in to watch the game, the beer and the shots by the Red Wings flowing. They killed a power play and had a nice scoring opportunity off a faceoff. It seemed like the pace of the game was very much in favor of our team (_our_ team!). Things were going so well that I decided to risk drinking something… _yucky_.

We listened to the sportscasters droning on in the background as the bartender poured two glasses of scotch. I didn't care if it set me back, partially because I had built up a nice manly image over the course of the first period, and partially because I'd had three beers and was feeling quite tipsy already. I think it was expensive, because Dr. Cox practically had his eyeballs glued to me as I weighed the glass in my hand.

I finally turned to him. "Down the hatch!" I drained the whole thing in one go, scrunching up my face.

Dr. Cox nudged me. "Well?"

"It was…" I unscrunched my face and smacked my lips. "Warm. And now ALL of me is warm. Sooooo toasty!" I laughed.

Dr. Cox didn't laugh, but he didn't frown either. He just grunted and took a drink of his own scotch. "Don't know why I waste that stuff on you. You'll never appreciate it." Considering his drink for a moment, he glanced back at me. "You're right, though. Warm." He sniffed and looked up at the television expectantly. As though on cue, the commercial ended and the second period began.

The warmth ended soon enough. The Penguins made a long pass (too long, if you ask me) into the Red Wings' zone which ended up as a goal. Roars of "icing!" and "blind-ass refs!" rippled through the crowd at the bar, and although I wasn't quite sure about it, Dr. Cox agreed with the others. It seemed as though the cup was slipping away from us suddenly, and the mood at the bar changed from hopeful to desperate. In our desperation we cheered the potential game-ending injury of the Penguins' Crosby, and the moment I let the thankful noise loose I felt immediately guilty. Looking around the room I could see it in the faces of the other patrons as well. We needed a pick-me-up, badly.

I thought we might have a chance when the Penguins were slapped with a penalty, but alas. Somewhere along the line the Red Wings had lost their crisp organization and now seemed to be flailing. Two minutes ticked by and we were still down a goal. Another couple of minutes and we were down two.

Dr. Cox had gone silent. His face was blank. He had switched completely from beer to scotch, which I took as a Very Bad Sign. I felt tears stinging the backs of my eyes. This was supposed to be our night, our cup, our new friendship. Instead it was turning into just another night after work. I hated everything at that moment, and I lashed out.

"GOD!" I spat. "You suck, Osbad. Grow a couple inches, you jackass. And while you're at it, learn how to play too!" The crappy rant didn't help. I actually felt worse.

But I had at least gotten Dr. Cox to snap out of his silent stupor. "Now now, Newbie," he started. "You have to learn to tell the difference between a defense that's falling apart and a crappy goalie. It's the same as the difference between a hospital support staff that doesn't have it together – botching IV catheters, overdosing patients, forgetting to request lab results – and a truly incompetent doctor." I waited for the obvious rib hidden there, waited for him to remind me that yes, I WAS that incompetent doctor. But it never materialized. Huh.

I was considering that analogy as the second period came to a close, but Dr. Cox knocked it out of my head with a salute at the television. I glanced up and caught sight of Fleury, the enemy goaltender, just before the commercial break. Confused, I tilted my head at my hockey mentor.

He shrugged without meeting my gaze. "As much as I hate the Penguins with the red hot burning passion of a thousand suns, I can recognize talent when I see it. That kid's really pulling himself together, anchoring his team. I gotta hand it to him. He's come a long way."

An involuntary blush rose to my cheeks, though I'm not sure how much redder they could've gotten since I was already pretty inebriated. I wasn't really sure _why_ I was blushing, but I felt like Dr. Cox had just handed me another analogy. I guess… I mean, he'd compared me to Fleury earlier in the evening, in a derogatory kind of way. And now he was praising him heavily. My mind swam. I turned to face Dr. Cox, but he steadfastly ignored me, focusing with all his power on the television. Swallowing hard, I summoned all my courage, reached slowly towards him…

…grabbed his glass of scotch, and downed it.

I could've sworn that I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. But he just raised his hand, signaling for refills.

The third period began and the atmosphere of the bar shifted. It felt more charged, more alive, as Penguins fans began to get more excited and Red Wings fans grew a little more frantic. The Penguins were playing some great defense, keeping the Red Wings from any realistic scoring chances. Even so, the Red Wings had the puck under their control the majority of the time. Dr. Cox seemed to think they were getting it together, but I wasn't convinced.

"Shee this?" I drawled, shakily holding up my empty scotch glass. I upended it and watched the very last drop fall onto the counter. "Thatsh my diminishing confidensh."

Dr. Cox frowned. "Hey now. That was about five bucks worth of scotch you just let go there. You'd better lick that glass clean from now on." _Wow. Five bucks a drop?! Damned expensive scotch!_ "They'll come back any minute now. Wait for it."

I waited.

The Red Wings were on the offense. Someone passed the puck out to the man at the point. The puck was gliding along the ice, ready to escape the zone and ruin the moment. Ericsson raised his stick and I was sure it was a lost cause. He wound up and made contact with the puck, sending it speeding toward the net. And it went in. I was stunned.

"I TOLD you!" came the triumphant rebuke. Dr. Cox whirled around to me, grinning.

If I wasn't stunned already enough, I was practically petrified when he raised his hand, offering a high-five. _Dr. Cox actually inviting me to touch his hand with mine? He must be reeeeaaallllllly drunk_, I thought. But then, I was probably even more so. So when I lifted my hand and went to high-five him, I misjudged not only the location of his hand but the velocity of mine, and I ended up slamming my hand down onto the counter and sending our empty scotch glasses tumbling across the floor. It hurt. A lot. But instead of crying wussily I laughed, and so did he.

_Our cup was coming back to us. I could see it bobbing lazily in the distance, but the waves were gently pushing it our way. Little ice floes floated between it and us, manned by tuxedoed penguins with hockey stick paddles. _

I snapped out of the daydream in time to see a shot by the Red Wings rocketing towards the net again. Time slowed to an agonizing pace. I heard my heartbeat in my ears. Handsily I flailed out and grabbed the sleeve of Dr. Cox's jersey. He reached out with his other hand and grasped my upper arm in a vice. We were up on our feet, and the whole crowd held their collective breaths.

The puck ricocheted off the crossbar and careened away from the goal.

I couldn't even begin to replicate the primal scream that poured forth from my mouth. The entire bar remained standing for the game's remainder, chanting for one team or another, hoping. The Wings took a time out. The puck flew out of play. Osgood was pulled and a sixth skater was put into play. The last minutes crept by impossibly slow.

The teams faced off with six seconds left. This was their last chance. I knew it could be done, I believed it in my heart. My palms were sweating like crazy. I realized that I was still clutching Dr. Cox's sleeve, and his hand was still wrapped around my arm. I was instantly sober, and closed my eyes for a moment, taking it all in. The sound of the crowd, Dr. Cox breathing raggedly, my heartbeat crashing in my ears. The smell of cigar smoke, mingled perfumes and colognes. The taste of scotch with the barest hint of beer and the very, very barest hint of apple. The feel of the buzzing in my chest, the rough texture of the hockey jersey, the warm, firm grip upon my bicep.

I opened my eyes.

The puck dropped, and in the six seconds they had left, the Wings took two lovely shots on goal. Unfortunately, Fleury made two beautiful saves.

It was over.

All of my senses dulled then. I don't know how long I stood there for, but it was long enough for most of the bar patrons to settle up and head out. The air cleared a bit, cooling from the constantly opening door. The stinging behind my eyes was back, accompanied by a lump in my throat. I looked down at Dr. Cox, who had apparently taken a seat again, and was contemplating the last of his scotch by swirling it around the bottom of the glass. He looked… odd. "Alright there, Newbie?" He asked, looking back up at the screen.

I didn't know if I was, so I didn't answer him right away. I continued to stare at the television, watching each individual Penguin player hoist the giant silver cup over his head, kissing it tenderly before handing it over to the next teammate. The lump in my throat swelled, and my eyes felt like they were on fire. I finally found my voice. "Aren't you upset?" I managed to squeak out. _Super manly,_ I chastised myself.

"Of course I am," he snorted, following the trophy with his eyes as it made its way amongst the players. "But not too upset. My team lost, but they were beat by better. I can appreciate that, I can appreciate them. Hockey's not just a game. It's an art form." He considered his next words carefully. "It's beautiful."

I think he sighed then, softly. Such an un-Coxlike thing for him to do. I must've imagined it. Even so, it was the straw that broke the Newbie's back. A tear escaped, and I hoped to God that nobody saw it. I reached up to fake-scratch my cheek and wipe it away. I wanted to thank him for the scotch, the evening, teaching me about hockey, teaching me about medicine, teaching me about life. I held the words at bay, knowing it would ruin the moment.

Instead, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and laid some bills on the counter. Taking a deep breath, I made to pull the jersey over my head so I could return it to Dr. Cox.

He laid a hand on my shoulder before I could complete the motion. "Aww, hell, Newbie. Keep it. I've got about a dozen of them." After handing some very large bills to the barkeep, he stood to leave. On the way out, he called to me over his shoulder, "Make sure you get it dry cleaned, though. You're going to need it for next season."

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**A/N: Not quite the storybook ending I had hoped for, but I think it was nice and bittersweet. Stupid Penguins. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!**


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